


not magnetic or mythical

by elegial



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Coming of Age, Eventual Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Friendship, M/M, Time Skips, but that comes later, it's hard to be both a world class athlete and a teenager
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegial/pseuds/elegial
Summary: “A month,” Yuri spits out, “It’s July, I don’t have time to sit on the bench, watching a bunch of knothead alphas ruin my ice.”“Our ice,” Mila hums, unperturbed. Possibly, because she’s too busy hungrily eyeing a man the size of a fridge bumbling around, while Yakov and the hockey players’ own coach both shout instructions to the team that’s taken over their figure skating rink.or: Yuri is an omega figure skater, Otabek is an alpha centre for SKA St. Petersburg. Everybody needs a friend.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	not magnetic or mythical

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic gathering dust in my wip folder for literal years and I thought maybe putting the first part out there would encourage me to keep going with it.
> 
> CW: discussions of a/b/o dynamics and inequality. References to dieting and food restriction. Yuri is 16 at the beginning of this story, Otabek is 18. Nothing physically untoward is going to happen, while Yuri is underaged and this won't be a smutty story, but there are feelings involved from the start. If that makes you uncomfortable, please don't read.

“It’s temporary,” Mila Babicheva coos, reaching out to ruffle Yuri’s hair. He ducks her hand sharply and scowls. The sound of skates abusing the ice of his home rink scratches at his ears, and he pulls the hood of his sweater up, fingers brushing errant hair out of his face.

“A month,” Yuri spits out, “It’s July, I don’t have time to sit on the bench, watching a bunch of knothead alphas ruin my ice.”

“Our ice,” Mila hums, unperturbed. Possibly, because she’s too busy hungrily eyeing a man the size of a fridge bumbling around, while Yakov and the hockey players’ own coach both shout instructions to the team that’s taken over their figure skating rink.

“As if a month is enough time to teach these assholes anything,” Yuri continues, gesturing to the players, “Look at them, Baba, they can’t fucking _skate_. It’s all stomping and weird flailing. They look like someone strapped skates on a herd of cows and pushed them onto the ice.” He doesn’t even bother pointing out their horrendously shallow edges. Yuri has beautiful, world-class, Mariana Trench deep, Olympic-winner edges. And here he is, sitting on the sidelines, having to wait his turn at his own fucking rink. Whoever decided that it was worth their club’s time to hold a twice-a-week skating clinic for SKA Saint Petersburg’s roster is a fucking idiot.

Yuri extends his left leg along the bench and sinks into a deep stretch, forehead resting on his shin. Of course, he knows why the club agreed to it. SKA is paying them handsomely for their expertise; enough that maybe this season Yuri doesn’t have to freeze his ass off in the derelict locker room, waiting for the ceiling to collapse on his head. It’s admittedly an exciting prospect, but not enough to stop him hating every second of the Tuesday and Friday mornings he has to stay out of their way.

Mila’s hand settles on his back and pushes him deeper, still, into the stretch. He yowls, more with surprise than with pain.

Something hits the side of the rink, and a gruff voice calls out: “Hey! You all right?” It takes Yuri a second to realise it’s addressed to him. He lifts upright from the stretch and meets the eyes of one of the hockey players. He’s huge with a bushy dark beard and a nose that’s been broken at least twice. His eyes are shifting alpha maroon, flickering between Mila and Yuri, a little confused.

Typical alpha, Yuri thinks, having to meddle as soon as he hears an omega raise their voice even a little.

“Everything’s fine,” he bites out, “Not that you’d recognise a stretch if it hit you in the face,” he can’t help but add. The alpha just grins a little, measuring Yuri with his gaze. Yuri hates the way he’s clearly not even a little phased by Yuri, not taking him seriously at all. He finds him amusing, at most. It gets Yuri’s hackles up, makes him want to hiss and spit until the alpha stands down.

“All right, then. Just making sure,” the alpha smiles but doesn’t make a move to skate off, either. Yuri scowls at him, and he laughs aloud, then. “Your face is far too pretty for that, little thing.” Mila instinctively grabs onto Yuri's arm that’s already moving to find something to throw at him. Before Yuri can grab the water bottle he’s reaching for, another player glides in, stopping smooth and silent next to Yuri’s new mortal enemy.

This one’s shorter than the first, slighter and smooth-faced. Prettier, Yuri thinks, Central Asian. His eyes are cool and disinterested, as they pass over Yuri and Mila, and he’s clearly an alpha too, judging by the way he knocks his shoulder into Yuri’s enemy and pushes him off the boards, herding him towards centre ice, where the rest of the idiot pack has gathered to await further instruction. Yuri watches him skate off and takes notice of his footwork. It’s not great, not by figure skating standards, but it’s adequate, competent. He’s the only one out of this bunch Yuri would be willing to consider an actual skater, not just a bag of alpha hormones with knife shoes and a stick strapped to it.

“That’s Otabek Altin,” Mila murmurs, sounding far too knowing for Yuri’s comfort.

“I don’t care,” Yuri lies.

Yuri pays attention for the rest of SKA’s clinic. He sees a whole different side to Yakov. He’s used to the coach yelling, obviously, but not quite like this. When he scolds and criticizes Yuri, he doesn’t puff himself up quite like he’s doing now. He doesn’t gesture as wildly with his hands with Yuri or curse nearly as much as he’s cursing now. It’s fascinating, and kind of funny to watch, because while he’s always known Yakov is an alpha, Yuri’s never really considered him one before. But now as he yells and spits and flails and curses, all while turning a mild shade of purple, Yuri sees the same kind of blustering foolishness in him as in all alphas.

“The old man’s gonna have a heart attack, if he doesn’t take a breath soon,” he grins. Mila cuffs him gently on the shoulder.

“Don’t be beastly. Lace your skates up, they’ll be done in a few. It’s back to business.”

Yuri obeys, eager and determined to be back on the ice the moment the clock strikes noon. When it does, he practically vaults over the side of the rink and turns into a backward glide. There are still hockey players on the ice, gathering up their equipment and chatting with the coaches. Yuri sees Yakov shoot him a sharp look, but ignores him, and pushes up into a single, lazy loop. As he lands and turns, he spots Otabek Altin looking at him, if not angrily, then maybe appraisingly. He drifts past Altin and meets his eye, refusing to shy away in his own rink.

“What’s with you, asshole?” he says, turning again to keep the alpha in his sights. Altin doesn’t answer, just looks at him for a second longer, eyes dark and unfathomable, before he skates off the ice as if Yuri had never spoken. Yuri grits his teeth to keep in an angry growl. It’s going to be a long month.

-

Wednesday and Thursday speed by too fast, a blur of practice and running and eating boring chicken while icing various body parts. On Thursday, Yuri checks Viktor’s Instagram, while forcing himself to stay put in an ice bath and sees that he’s still being an idiot in Japan. There’s a short clip of him gliding in an Ina Bauer at a shitty-looking rink. Viktor looks happy, even from far away, even under the fluorescent lights of a windowless shithole. Yuri comments a line of old man emojis and a bomb and promptly posts a picture of himself in a back-breaking Biellman that Mila took earlier in the day, all clean lines and long limbs encased in black, with the Russian summer sun flooding through floor-to-ceiling windows behind him and speckling the ice. Viktor betrayed him and left, but Yuri will have the last Insta-laugh.

As soon as he posts his Instagram, the likes and comments start trickling in. The clear majority are from his fans, who spam his comments with cats and hearts, but there’s always a couple of creeps that Yuri tries to find and block as soon as he can. It’s always something highly unoriginal about his flexibility, anyway.

What catches his attention is the notification that declares _altin19 liked your picture_. Yuri taps through to the profile and yes, it’s Otabek Altin himself, who apparently already follows Yuri. Yuri hesitates a second, before following him back. His bio is boring; _centre for SKA Saint Petersburg #19_. His home is set as Almaty, Kazakhstan. Little wary, Yuri scrolls down his profile. He’s seen hockey players’ Instagrams before, always shoved into his face by Mila to show off her newest piece of meat. They’re usually dumb as shit; just ugly gym pics, and bland game shots, and the occasional dog, because for some reason all hockey players are obsessed with their dogs.

Altin’s is better, Yuri thinks. It’s a lot of nature; sunsets and mountain vistas, probably from Almaty, because Yuri knows for sure nothing like this is anywhere near Saint Petersburg. There’s a couple of selfies, where mostly he’s in sharp game day suits and posing with someone else. One of the selfies Yuri would categorize as a thirst trap, though not a gross one. He’s wearing an expensive-looking leather jacket and half sitting on a motorcycle, and the way his white t-shirt lays, there’s no doubting the muscles underneath it. Yuri is careful not to like that one, because the number of likes is already obscene, and he thinks Altin probably doesn’t need any more of an ego boost. What he does like are the multiple pictures of cats. Most of them are of the same one; a grey little beast that has a splotch of white on its chest and looks very soft and small curled up on a pillow or sitting primly on a windowsill. Altin seems like a bit of an asshole from what Yuri’s seen, but he can’t be fully evil either, Yuri decides; not with a cat that cute.

Shivering, Yuri gets out of the bath and wraps himself into a fluffy white bathrobe. It’s nearing nine in the evening, and Lilia will start to huff and puff if he’s not in bed soon. There can’t be another 16-year-old in this city with such a ridiculous schedule, Yuri thinks a little bitterly, tip-toeing down the hardwood hallway of Lilia’s Vasilevsky Island home. He’s lived with Lilia for over a year now, but he still feels out of place in her stately old-world luxury. Home is always Moscow and his grandfather’s worn-down apartment in a grey Soviet block, no matter how many times he wakes up in a queen-sized mahogany bed, or bathes in a clawfoot tub.

He stops at a pair of double doors and knocks, as he does every night. Yuri is nothing, if not capable of following a schedule.

“Come in, Yura,” Lilia calls dryly, as always. Yuri sneaks in through a narrow gap, and finds Lilia Baranovskaya sitting in a massive armchair by the fireplace. She’s wearing a pearly silk robe and a turban, her face is still fully made up, there’s a book in her lap, and a martini glass on the side table. Potya, the little traitor, is curled at her feet, basking in the warmth of the fire. She looks like she could bring down cities with a tap of her cane. He’d die before admitting it, but Yuri considers her absolute _goals_.

“Legs iced?” Lilia asks, examining him with a sharp eye, while her hand goes to pick up the glass. She calls her nightly drink a dry vodka martini. Yuri calls it a glass of Beluga Noble, poured while looking at a bottle of vermouth.

“Yes. Good night, Lilia,” Yuri says, already turning away again, before Lilia’s voice halts him.

“I can’t pick you up tomorrow, you’ll have to walk to the studio,” she tells him. If it were anyone else in the world, Yuri would groan and whine about having to walk from the rink to the ballet class, between strenuous practices. But it’s Lilia, so he just bites back a sigh, and nods.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, Yuratchka,” she hums with a hint of an alpha timber in her voice, and with his back turned to her, Yuri doesn’t fight the pleased twitch of his mouth or the warmth that spreads down his throat to his chest.

-

Friday dawns gorgeous. Yuri makes his way to the rink while the sun is still pink and there’s a gauzy layer of mist hovering over the river. Yakov runs him to the fucking ground that morning, and by 10 AM, Yuri is almost glad to see the hockey team clamber onto the ice, forcing him to retreat. Almost. He steps off the ice and unlaces his skates, prodding at a new bruise as he goes. Somewhere between ten and fourteen, pain turned from discouragement to a reward, and now Yuri sometimes finds himself wondering, whether the wires in his brain have tangled and confuse pain and pleasure entirely. He goes to shower and change, and by the time he’s back by the rink, the hockey team has set up some sort of an obstacle course with cones and ropes. He still has three hours to kill before Lilia’s class. He could go do his homework and eat a proper lunch at home. Or, he could get a sandwich, stretch, and laugh at whatever hockey agility sideshow these morons are about to get into.

After a quick trip to the café next door, Yuri settles down onto a bench with a sandwich bigger than his foot and sinks into a split. He tears through his sandwich quickly, eyes sharp on the ice. The clown pack is mostly doing sprints between cones; sharp turns and acceleration drills. At one point, bless his heart, Yakov makes them backwards slalom through a line of cones on one foot. There’s a lot of swearing and flailing and a couple of wipeouts. Then it’s Altin’s turn, and Yuri watches with interest as he picks up speed and weaves through effortlessly. There’s something about the way he holds himself on the ice, especially when he’s gliding backwards with one foot that makes Yuri think at any moment he could push up into a flip and land it cleanly.

There’s a couple of encouraging whoops as he clears the obstacle, and before Yuri can pretend disinterest, Altin has turned his head and is looking straight at him. Like he’s known all along, where Yuri is. Yuri nods at him in acknowledgement, and this time Altin doesn’t ignore him entirely. He nods back, attention lingering for a moment, before Yakov’s blowing a whistle and they’re moving onto the next exercise.

By the time the team finishes, Yuri is adequately prepared and stretched for whatever torture Lilia has for him today. The only problem is that the once beautiful morning has turned into an overcast, looming afternoon, with fat raindrops starting to splatter the pavement just as Yuri walks out. He groans at the sight, and kicks at an empty can some douchebag has left on the ground. It’s a thirty-minute walk to the studio, and much like Potya in her infinite wisdom, Yuri detests getting wet.

The low rumble of a motorcycle rolling to a stop by the sidewalk draws Yuri’s attention.

“Want a ride?” Otabek Altin asks, taking off his helmet and regarding Yuri a little curiously. Yuri stares at him dumbly, wholly caught off guard. Altin hops off the bike, and digs out a helmet from the rear box, holding it out to Yuri.

“Coming or not?” Altin asks then, as Yuri still hasn’t figured out what to do or say. It’s supremely annoying, to be so blindsided.

“Yeah, thanks,” Yuri forces out then, taking the helmet and eyeing the back of the bike. He’s never been on a motorcycle. He has absolutely no idea how to even approach getting on it.

“You should take this,” Altin says, taking off his leather jacket, “We’re not going to fall, but if we do, better me than you.” Yuri accepts the jacket and pulls it on, too busy trying to figure out how to get on the bike to pay that much attention to what Altin is saying. In the end, he just goes for it, and apparently does fine, since there’s no comment on Altin’s part. He just shows where to hold on, asks the address, and they’re off.

It is simultaneously the most exhilarating and most mortifying ten minutes of Yuri’s life. Exhilarating, because the wind and the noise make it feel like they’re speeding, even though Altin is probably driving under the limit. Mortifying, because, honestly, the helmet and the jacket smell like alpha. Good alpha, too. A little musky and woodsy. It makes Yuri’s traitorous knees weak and he can’t stop himself from taking a couple of huge breaths. He’s halfway convinced, as they pull over outside Lilia’s dance studio, that he’s going to fall off the bike and melt onto the pavement right in front of Altin. He’d have to quit skating and go back to Moscow then, probably.

Mercifully, Yuri’s knees hold up, and he’s quick to strip off the helmet and jacket, even though a part of him has the crazy thought that maybe he should rub the jacket against his neck and jaw instead.

“Thanks for the ride,” Yuri says. Altin nods, and shrugs the jacket back on, stowing away the helmet. It’s interesting to get a good look at him from up close. He is very handsome; Yuri has to acknowledge it. Dark eyes. Cheekbones and jawline for days. Not the most stereotypical alpha; he’s too pretty for that. Smaller too, though still bigger than Yuri, which is not a difficult feat, when he’s all of 164 centimetres and 50 kilos soaking wet.

“Of course. I know the team is disturbing your practice. Seemed like the least I could do in return.”

Yuri checks his phone and realises that with his walking cut short, he’s 45 minutes early. Lilia isn’t probably even at the studio yet. He eyes Altin quickly. All things considered, he seems cool, and he smells good, and Yuri’s opened his mouth before his brain has come to any sort of conclusion based on those observations.

“You busy?” he asks Altin, “I’ll forgive you and your clown team if you buy me coffee. I have time to kill, now.” Altin smiles at that and looks around the street. There’s a café a few doors down.

“That one work for you?” he asks, tilting his head towards it.

Altin holds the door open for him and pays for their drinks with a fancy-looking card. Yuri is feeling quite pleased with his lot in life, as they settle by the window.

“We’ve actually met before, you know,” Altin says, looking out to the street.

“No, we haven’t,” Yuri says reflexively. Altin’s lip twitches upwards.

“Yeah, you probably wouldn’t remember me. It was years ago, you must’ve been, what? Nine or ten? Yakov ran a summer camp, and I was there and so bad that they put me with the little kids,” he laughs, “And I remember looking at Yuri Plisetsky and thinking that he had the eyes of a soldier.”

Yuri can feel his cheeks heat up. He tries to scowl to hide his blush, but it’s not really working.

“So, you _were_ a figure skater, once,” he says then, pleased that his original assessment was somewhat correct, “It shows. Your form is not as terrible as the rest of your bag of alphas.”

Altin laughs, short and low.

“Yeah. My parents didn’t have a lot of admiration for team sports originally, but by the time I presented, it was obvious that I’d make a better hockey centre than a single skater. And their forms aren’t terrible, they’re just meant for a different sport,” he adds with a pointed look. Yuri rolls his eyes.

“It’s painful to look at,” Yuri insists, but drops the matter in favour of something more important, “You have a cat? I saw one on your Instagram.”

“You mean Meg? Yeah, she’s mine.”

“I have a cat too. I call her Potya, for short.”

“And her full name?” Altin asks, brows drawn together like he takes this appropriately seriously.

“Puma Tiger Scorpion,” Yuri says, daring him to laugh. Altin blinks lazily and looks first out onto the street, then back at Yuri, like he’s making sure they’re alone.

“Meg is short for Megatron,” he tells Yuri, then, and Yuri laughs so hard his head falls back and the old man nursing a coffee in the corner glares at them.

“We should be friends,” Altin declares. Yuri scoffs.

“We already are, dumbass.”

“So, you looked at my Instagram, huh?” Otabek asks then. Yuri leans back and refuses to be baited.

“You looked at mine first.”

Otabek is more talkative than Yuri would have guessed from his appearance and aloof demeanour. He tells Yuri about his cat, and his family of two little sisters, and how he likes to mix music and DJ in his spare time and ride his bike in the mountains around Almaty when he has a chance to visit during the summer. Yuri thinks he’s kind of painfully cool and resolves to keep that information to himself, at least for now. No use letting it go to his head.

In turn, Yuri talks some about his skating family in Saint Petersburg, and a lot about his cat, and a little about his grandfather. He misses him so much and talking about him only makes it worse. Then Otabek makes the mistake of asking about Viktor Nikiforov, which sends Yuri down such a deep rabbit hole of grudges that only the sharp rap of knuckles against the window pulls him out of it.

They both startle, and Yuri sees Lilia’s sharp face looking through the glass. She looks unamused and inclines her head imperiously for Yuri to follow her.

“Shit,” Yuri sigh, and drowns the last, cooled dregs of his coffee that he’s kind of forgot about, “That’s Lilia. I have to go.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you at the rink?” Otabek offers, and Yuri scoffs.

“Give me your phone. This isn’t the fucking 90s.”

Otabek obeys, and Yuri adds his number in it, sending a nonsense string of letters to himself on Otabek’s WhatsApp.

“There. Thanks for the coffee, gotta run!” Yuri picks up his bag, and hurries out without further ado, thanking all the gods that Lilia doesn’t seem to be in a mood to meet and interrogate his new friend, as she’s already at the studio door down the street, waiting for Yuri to catch up. Bloody hag really caught him by surprise.

Lilia has him at the barre for their whole session and doesn’t bring up Otabek until their booked time is nearly over, and Yuri’s calves are trembling.

“So, you have a new friend, Yura?” she asks. He starts to turn his head to look at her, and she gestures dismissively with her fingers, “Eyes forward. Shoulders back.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” It’s a novel thought.

“Where did you meet him?” Lilia asks, circling him around the free-standing barre like a shark, eyes beady and focused on finding even the slightest flaw in Yuri’s stance. She won’t find one, Yuri thinks, gritting his teeth against the exhaustion.

“At the rink. He’s one of the SKA players.”

“Alpha?” she asks immediately, “You’re very young.”

“Yes, an alpha. And it’s not. Like that. We just met. We’re friends,” Yuri emphasises, frustrated and getting angry, and even more frustrated that he can’t yell at Lilia.

“I know how young alphas are, Yura. Be careful.”

“You are an alpha,” Yuri points out.

“Yes. Which is why I know,” Lilia nearly cackles, and taps at the ground near Yuri’s left foot, “Keep that straight.”

“It is straight,” Yuri snaps, then, finally. It’s the rudest he’s spoken to Lilia in a long while. Lilia stops the music and places herself neatly in front of Yuri. She bends down so their eyes are level.

“That is why I said to _keep_ it there,” she says calmly. She draws back to her full height, and grasps Yuri’s chin between her bony fingers, forcing his head up. “You’re so very beautiful, Yuratchka. And young. And an omega. It won’t take long before there’s a whole pack of alphas sniffing around, testing the waters. And unless you want to get distracted from your goal and get hurt in the process, you have to _listen_ to me and trust I’m doing everything for your own good.”

Lilia’s grip on him is strong, her voice has the low resonance of an alpha timber and it drains the ire out of him. He lowers his gaze to the floor behind her and tilts his head a little to the side, neck muscles stretching in formal submission. Lilia nods and lets go of him, patting his cheek.

“I wasn’t lying. Otabek is just a new friend. We barely know each other,” Yuri says. He wants this to be clear, so that if Lilia and Otabek ever meet, Lilia won’t have the wrong idea. She nods, while she gathers up their things.

“I believe you,” she says. She zips up her bag, and shoulders it, “For now.”

Yuri follows Lilia to her car silently, throwing his bag in the trunk and sinking down into the cream leather seat. The drive home is quiet and soft in her expensive black sedan that moves through traffic like an unsinkable ocean liner. It’s nowhere near as fun as Yuri’s ride to the studio. He does notice, however, that Lilia speeds a lot more than Otabek. He digs out his phone, snaps a picture of the dashboard, and sends it to Otabek with a text saying _my 60 yr old ballet teacher drives faster than u._ Just before they’re home, his phone dings back. Otabek has simply sent him the gotta go fast meme in response. Yuri smiles and pockets his phone again.

-

Yuri starts to look forward to the SKA clinic. He doesn’t always, or even usually, stay to watch the whole thing go down. He greets Otabek, when they come in, and then goes and eats, or works out, or stretches, or even, very occasionally, does his homework. Then, when it’s nearing noon and the ice is about to be his again, he slinks back in and watches them finish, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell twenty alphas leave behind them after a work-out. Often, they have a mood-lightener that they end on, which Yuri figures is a good thing because he’s never seen a more temperamental bunch of people in his life. Whoever says hockey players are less emotional and sensitive than figure skaters is a dirty fucking liar. Yuri has seen figure skaters as young as five fall down repeatedly, and doggedly get up and try again, whereas it takes these men three falls at the most, before they start snapping and growling. Well, most of them. Yuri has yet to see Otabek lose his temper, and he’s kind of looking forward to it now with a morbid curiosity.

One day, the hockey team is huddled up at centre ice, listening intently, as Yakov tries to guide them through the mechanics of a Salchow jump. To Yuri’s absolute delight none of them seem to be getting it, and Yuri watches as Otabek plays dumb with a guileless expression. Yuri thinks about calling him out on it but holds his tongue. Otabek seems to get along well with his team, but he’s only just over his rookie season. Maybe his figure skating past is not something he’s comfortable sharing with them at large, yet.

Yakov spots him as he approaches the ice, and his eyes light up with relief. He gestures for Yuri to join them, and he skates up, wary, because he has an idea of where this is going.

“Yuri, excellent! I was just trying to explain the Salchow to this bunch, but I think they’d understand better from a live example. Show them how it’s done!”

Yuri doesn’t bother protesting, because he’s itching to get back onto the ice, and a single Salchow is nothing. Besides, he’s not above a little showing off. He pushes out and circles the group once, picking up speed, then it’s the three-turn, edge, jump, twist, land. His leg is extended, his arms are poised, and none of these meatheads will ever witness a cleaner Salchow.

He’s met mostly with big eyes and mild terror.

“Yeah, none of us can do that,” Captain Meathead points out the obvious. Yuri scoffs and comes to halt in front of him.

“Obviously not. You’d break your ankle.” Then he does the stationary, pared-down version. A little bunny hop, that’s closer to a waltz jump than anything else, “That’s where the babies start off.”

Gleeful, Yuri observes as the players spread out and start hopping from one foot to another. Some are surprisingly agile, so he ignores them. His mortal enemy is a disgrace, so Yuri glides past him backward and boos him under his breath. As he does, a hand reaches out, and pulls him away, next to Otabek, who’s lingering at the fringes.

“You’re a child,” Otabek says and there’s laughter in his voice.

“I am not,” Yuri says, outraged, and swats at Otabek, who only laughs more.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, you’re right. Sixteen is a fine, mature age.”

“You were sixteen like two days ago, okay? Don’t get all old man on me,” Yuri complains.

“More like two years ago, but fine. I understand babies don’t have a firm grasp on the concept of time.” Wisely, Otabek pushes away enough, so that the slap Yuri aims at him doesn’t connect. “We don’t use our hands for hurting!” Otabek says, waggling a finger at him. Yuri stomps his foot, and immediately regrets it, as Otabek raises a brow.

“Don’t fucking say it,” Yuri warns him, and quickly changes the subject, “Will you take me to the movies tonight? I want to see the new Mission Impossible.”

“Sure,” Otabek shrugs. He never puts up a fight when Yuri suggests something for them to do. It’s a very useful feature to have in a friend, Yuri thinks.

“Will you also buy me popcorn?” he tests, and Otabek rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. He crosses his arms over his chest and regards Yuri with a mocking gleam in his eyes.

“Should I just give you my rapidly thinning wallet, so you can be friends with it, instead?”

Yuri pretends to consider it. When they first started hanging out a couple of weeks ago, he always offered to pay his share whenever they went out anywhere. Otabek never let him, and now Yuri’s decided to see where he draws the line. It’s not like his 60 million rouble salary is going to take a noticeable hit anytime soon.

“Tempting, but people might not believe my name is Otabek Altin if I try to use your card,” Yuri sighs, “You should probably tag along, just in case.”

Otabek hums in agreement as he’s being called back to the team that’s making its way off the ice. Before he follows, he taps his knuckles softly against Yuri’s in goodbye. Yuri’s rink is his rule again, but now he’s just excited for practice to be over. His hand tingles.

-

The good thing about being friends with other professional athletes is that they have as stupid a schedule as Yuri does. He has a Lilia-enforced curfew of 8:30 because he has to be in bed by 9, which means it’s only 5:30, not even proper dinner time when Otabek texts him that he’s waiting for Yuri outside.

To Yuri’s disappointment, instead of the gleaming black motorcycle, there’s a gleaming black car idling in front of the apartment building. He can just make out Otabek’s profile through the tinted windows.

“Where’s your bike?” Yuri greets Otabek, sliding onto the passenger seat. It’s a nice car, a Mercedes, but Yuri had really been looking forward to the recklessly freeing feeling of air blasting against him while they cut through the streets. Especially, as the interior of the car had the unmistakable and unescapable scent of alpha clinging to all surfaces.

“It might rain later,” Otabek shrugs, waiting just long enough for Yuri to put on his seatbelt before peeling off into traffic, “And I’m not eager to be death-stared by Lilia Mikhailovna again when I bring you back,” he adds after a beat, the corner of his mouth curling into a mildly self-deprecating grin. Yuri scoffs, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.

Last week Otabek had dropped him off just before his curfew after they’d stayed overtime at the rink, and Lilia had been standing at the front door, wearing her silk robe, and looking like judgement day made a person. Yuri had been furious, and the only saving grace of it all had been that Lilia had kept her distance, not speaking until the apartment doors on the top floor had closed behind them. Apparently, her death glare had made an impression on Otabek, regardless. Yuri would find it funny that the second line centre for SKA St. Petersburg feared his ballet teacher and guardian if he weren’t too busy being mortified of having one.

“She’s the worst,” Yuri says with relish, eyes fixed on the back of the car in front of them. Otabek makes the humming sound Yuri’s grown absurdly fond of in a matter of weeks. It’s his default reaction to most things, whether he agrees with them or not.

“She’s looking out for you. That’s a good thing,” Otabek says then. He flicks on his indicator and changes lanes.

“Why?” Yuri asks, hackles rising, “Because I’m an omega?”

“No,” says Otabek, eyes briefly meeting his as they come to another set of red lights, “Of course not. Because you’re very young and very talented, and there are people, who might want to try and take advantage.”

There’s something about Otabek that makes Yuri want to be kinder than he really is. Maybe it’s the whole friendship thing, he thinks, appalled. So, he inclines his head, conceding the point.

“Fine, I guess.”

“To be honest, I wish I’d had a Lilia when I first came to Piter.” Otabek says it lightly, but it takes Yuri by surprise. He’s never really thought about how Otabek is a relative stranger to St. Petersburg, a stranger to Russia altogether.

“Did you just come alone?” he asks, frowning, “You would’ve been my age, right? Two years ago?”

“Just about, yeah. And I did come alone. Got the contract. Packed a bag, rented an apartment without ever seeing it. I didn’t know anyone in Piter, back then. It all worked out fine, in the end, but it would’ve been easier if there’d been someone looking after me a little. I did some dumb shit before I figured myself out.”

Yuri relaxes back into the cream leather of the car seat and tries to picture an Otabek; a little younger than now, softer around the face. All alone in a foreign metropolis, with no one to say goodnight to before bed, and no one to say good morning to the next day. His chest constricts, and he vows quietly to get Lilia flowers tomorrow.

The movie is fine. Loud, and very American, and kind of dumb. Otabek makes good on his promise and buys Yuri popcorn, and Yuri takes a second to resent his meal plan for not allowing him to season it. As they’re leaving, a girl around their age recognises them both just outside, calling out Yuri’s name first, and then stuttering, rather hilariously, as she realises who he’s with. She seems chill enough and smells inoffensively beta enough, that Yuri agrees to a picture. First, Otabek offers to take the picture of the two of them, but after another round of polite stuttering, slots against Yuri’s side, and snaps a selfie of them all. Yuri watches the girl’s big blue eyes get comically wide, as Otabek hands the phone back to her with a polite smile and makes a mental note of teasing him about this out of the girl’s earshot.

Back in the car, Otabek doesn’t take the bait. He just hums again and shrugs a little.

“I don’t get recognised, usually. You make a good beacon, though. All that blond hair,” he says, voice a little teasing in return. Yuri touches his hair, hanging loose around his face, reflexively, and decides to take it as a compliment. He thinks Otabek is lying, though, when he says he doesn’t get recognised in Piter. He’s a top-six forward for SKA, they won the Gagarin Cup only months ago, and he’s not half-bad or ordinary looking. He’s definitely lying.

The low summer evening sun hits him directly in the eye, and he sets his sunglasses on his nose, relaxing against the seat, content to listen to the low rumble of the engine and watch the thinning traffic as they get towards the end of Nevsky Prospekt. Yuri only has fifteen minutes before his curfew. He’s so glad he finished his homework before leaving. When he says so aloud, Otabek seems surprised.

“You’re still in school? I figured you’d finished by now.”

It’s not an unfair guess, Yuri supposes. A lot of the kids he knows in the skating circles drop out as soon as they can without looking back.

“My grandpa would kill me if I dropped out,” he tells Otabek, and it’s not untrue. It’s the explanation he usually gives when people ask him why he’s “wasting his time” with school. Funny, how they rarely ask that of the alpha skaters. “But… I don’t hate it, either,” he admits then. It’s something he doesn’t remember ever saying aloud.

“Yeah?” Otabek sounds pleased, almost proud, and the casual alpha approval of it trickles warmth into Yuri’s chest, “That’s cool.”

“Well. I’m going to be the best figure skater in the world next year. And the year after that. But I won’t be forever, and even a ten-year skating career won’t be enough to live on for the rest of my life. Having some kind of an education seems like a decent plan B.”

“Are you considering university?”

Yuri shrugs.

“Maybe later. I like physics. And biology. And I’m not bad at maths. I suppose I could do something with those.”

Otabek laughs, and for a moment a wave of humiliation flushes through Yuri. He doesn’t talk about school, mostly for this exact reason. He knows he’s a pretty omega skater. He’s used to his intelligence being underestimated, but it hurts doubly bad when it’s coming from Otabek.

“It’s not funny,” he snaps, shoulders hunching up. Otabek quiets, a hand immediately shooting out to grasp Yuri’s wrist. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he squeezes his wrist softly, apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Yura,” he soothes, “I wasn’t laughing at you. I think it’s awesome. I just thought it was so fitting that the boy who can do a quad jump likes physics.” Yuri rolls his eyes but relaxes into Otabek’s hold. It’s not like Otabek’s wrong. Skating is why he likes physics.

Lilia is waiting by the front door again, as Otabek glides the car into a stop by the sidewalk. This time she approaches, before Yuri is even out of the car, and both he and Otabek freeze like deer confronted by a bear. She opens the passenger side door, gesturing with a finger for Yuri to step out. He obeys with a murmured goodnight to Otabek, who replies softly in kind. Lilia is still looking at Otabek, measuring him with her eyes. Yuri watches her watch him, her green eyes sharp, but not as disapproving as Yuri might have assumed.

“Nice car,” she finally says.

“Thank you,” Otabek replies, and Lilia flicks the door shut.

They both had their alpha voices out, Yuri thinks a little hysterically, as he follows Lilia upstairs. He’s absolutely not going to examine that thought any further.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the start of this story. It's unfinished and I make no promises about the update schedule, but I would love to have your input on what you think about the setup so far.


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